Page 97 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“Callahan,” the other man said, his voice low. “Get Miss Dumont to the safe house immediately. I’ve had clothes and necessities delivered. A carriage is waiting at the servants’ entrance.” He glanced around the room. “This is a bloody disaster, and I need you both gone before anyone thinks to start asking questions.”
Ronan’s expression hardened. “Sir, with respect, there are wounded. I should—”
“No longer your concern. You have your orders. Be quick about it. I’ll expect your report in the morning.”
*
The safe house was exactly as she remembered it from five months ago – the same worn furniture, the same faded drapes, even the same chip on the mantelpiece.
Isabel watched Ronan move through his security routine. Lock the door. Check the windows. Test the back exit. She’d seen him do this before, but tonight it made her throat ache.
Tomorrow morning, she’d be gone.
He kept stealing glances at her between tasks. Not subtle ones, either. Long, searching looks that made her skin heat.
He was worried about her. The realisation twisted something in her chest. The same man who’d carved his name where Favreau had tried to claim her. The man who’d wrapped her wounds and held her when the nightmares came. He could break her if she let him. Ruin her.
“You’re looking at me like you’re about to bolt,” Ronan said suddenly, straightening from where he’d been checking under a table. His voice was rough. “Don’t. Please.”
Isabel swallowed hard.
Tell him.
If she told him about Favreau’s threat, he’d put himself between them. He’d die trying to protect her, and she couldn’t bear it.
The yearning swelled beneath her ribs. She crossed the space between them in three quick strides and pulled his mouth down to hers.
Take me, undo me, break me.
If this was destruction, she wanted all of it.
27
The world went sideways the instant Isabel’s mouth collided with his.
Callahan’s mind emptied of everything but her – the heat of her skin against his palms, the glide of her tongue, the soft noises she breathed into him. Just Isabel, wild and urgent in his arms.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what brought this on?” he whispered.
Isabel’s gaze skittered away. Vulnerability sat strangely on her. “I needed a moment. To feel . . . real.”
Ah, Christ.
Callahan’s heart cracked against his ribs. He knew the ugly, serrated pieces of her history that still had teeth. Some scars never stopped hurting.
He curled his fingers around her hips, guiding her to the bed. “Let me make you feel real, then.”
They removed each other’s clothes, shaking hands interspersed with fleeting touches – relearning all the secret places that made the other gasp and shiver.
Of all the times they’d come together, it had never been quite like this. Reverent. Aching. A meeting of broken edges, trying to make something whole.
When she was finally bared to him, Callahan took a moment just to look at her.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, trailing fingers over the hollow of her throat, the arch of her collarbones, the lush swell of her breasts. “So damn beautiful.”
He followed the path forged by his hands with lips and tongue and the barest graze of teeth, worshipping her. Mapping the tracery of silvered scars and the fresh bandage over her sternum. Silent vows breathed into pebbled flesh.
His. Only his.
